Observations of a Boswell
by shedoc
Summary: He's been gone for three long years... three years without his Boswell to guide and anchor him... what changes have been wrought in the man? Rated for safety - READ THE WARNING IN FIRST CHAPTER - sequel to Observations of a Wife
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer – I'm still not Conan Doyle (although I may be the tooth fairy… or perhaps not…)

I own Sweetie though…

Notes – again, not slash, cos that's just not right for these two… mostly Holmes' POV… and Mycroft is slightly evil in this one!... oh, just read it!

_Upon reflection – Holmes is probably OC here, just to warn people who get annoyed by that sort of thing… I'm not sure I've got him right._

_**MAJOR WARNING HERE – I DISCUSS A SERIAL KILLER AND HIS VICTIMS LATER ON IN THE STORY AND EVEN FOR ME ITS KIND OF DISTURBING SO IF YOU'RE THE QUEASY TYPE SKIP THE CHAPTER HEADED 'THE CORPSE' - - - DO NOT READ THAT CHAPTER AND THEN WHINE TO ME THAT I DIDN'T WARN YOU**_

Timeline – immediately prior to and post 'The Empty House' – and I guess this counts as an AU

**Observations of a Boswell**

**Prior to the Reunion – Mycroft**

I have to admit that the death of my brother brought out the worst in me. Watson's telegram was a considerable shock – the thought that the puffed up mathematician Moriarty could actually do Sherlock some harm had never been seriously considered by myself for all of my brother's dramatics. That the dolt Watson had abandoned my brother at his hour of need for a _stranger_, and a fictitious one at that, leant a particularly sharp edge to my tongue when the doctor paid me a visit in our mutual mourning.

Two days later I received a telegram from Sherlock himself, using a code that we had contrived in a distant and rare moment of accord in our childhood. No one else would have known of the codes existence, in fact I was hard pressed to recall it myself in the first instance, and that alone was sufficient to prove to me that the sender was truly my brother.

As per usual, the niceties had completely eluded him, and he had sent a short list of instructions for me to follow. It seemed that Moriarty had been more heavily involved overseas than we had first thought; therefore Sherlock was intending to smash the remnants of the Professors network prior to returning to London. He needed funds, which I supplied in return for him running a few minor errands for England; in addition to this he had instructed me to preserve his rooms at Baker Street and to inform the doltish doctor of his survival.

That last instruction was something I found very easy to ignore. A dead man had no enemies, thus he could not be distracted by petty and commonplace things. Watson's ignorance played well into my plans, so I maintained the silence between us. Let the man think that I continued to blame him for Sherlock's demise. Perhaps the histrionics that would accompany my brothers' eventual return would drive a much needed wedge between them. I disliked seeing my brother beholden to someone so far below his natural level. Watson was something of a millstone about Sherlock's neck: I could only hope that after several years of freedom from such an unnecessary weight, my brother would avoid becoming entangled once more upon his return.

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	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer – I'm still not Conan Doyle (although I may be the tooth fairy… or perhaps not…)

I own Sweetie though…

**Observations of a Boswell**

**Prior to the Reunion – Sherlock**

Although I would have much preferred to return to Watson's side immediately upon setting foot on English soil for the first time in three weary years, I knew better than to just announce myself to my dearest Watson and his Wife without warning. I had sent my first telegram to Mycroft with strict instructions, but as I had no news of my Watson since we parted ways in Switzerland I couldn't risk upsetting his household.

I hoped that my return would be welcomed. I had found our separation a true hardship in more ways than one. Watson was a very able assistant in my work – he knew when to speak, when to act and when to remain still. I had once called him my sounding board and that was true – his mere presence was enough to settle my nerves and calm my mind so that I could focus wholly on the problem at hand. His talent with a gun and fisticuffs also freed me to pursue our quarry wholeheartedly. I did not have to look constantly over my shoulder when my Watson was with me.

Additionally, his terrible absence had finally done what he had failed to do with his presence. Three years of being constantly on my guard had broken me free of the seven percent solution, and I had come to realise exactly how much the drug had clouded my mind. I had much to apologise for on that front, but I would do so in an instant and gladly if only I could once more take my ease in his presence. I was even looking forward to renewing my acquaintance with his Wife. I was unsure how she would respond to my return and subsequent demands on Watson's time. I could only entertain the entirely unworthy hope that she hadn't endeavoured to tie him more firmly to her side by giving him children.

My Watson would make an excellent father and my wishes that he not be further burdened with family duties were wholly selfish and unworthy. I knew that, but could not find it in myself to be wholly unconcerned that the past three years had finally created a series of circumstances that made our continued alliance impractical to the point of impossibility.

The Adair murder had been a gift of Providence, allowing me to ensnare the final representative of Moriarty on British soil, thus opening the way for my return home. Inspector Lestrade's involvement was doubly welcome; despite my impatience with the man he was the best of Scotland Yard and a friend to Watson. That friendship also smoothed the way for my work with the official force on more than one occasion, yet another example of Watson's worth to me and my work.

Mycroft had instructed me to return to his offices in Whitehall at once, much in the way a father would summon a recalcitrant son; an attitude I resented greatly. I had no difficulty in penetrating his offices, even in the disguise of the old bookseller that had lived near our childhood home. My brother had apparently warned his secretary to expect me, as the man let me in without batting an eyelid. Lestrade was already there, seated uneasily in a wooden straight-backed chair before my large brothers' larger desk, looking very much like a small boy called to the carpet in the headmaster's study.

"You're three minutes late," Mycroft informed me sourly, his temper no doubt increased by fobbing off Lestrade's questions while briefing the man about Moran and his connections. He had no patience for those he deemed to be below his position, though he was at least marginally more polite to the few women he encountered.

"It's good to see you again, Lestrade," I ignored my brother which I knew would annoy him, choosing instead to speak in my normal voice and straighten to my normal height. The look on Lestrade's face was priceless, making me chuckle as I deposited the wig, beard and books I carried on a corner of Mycroft's desk, purposely knocking the items there askew as I did.

"You ill bred son of a fishwife…" Lestrade's expression had faded from shock to fury with unhealthy rapidity, "What have you been playing at? Do you even know what has happened these last three years?"

"Lestrade, I apologise for keeping you in the dark, but the fewer people who knew I was alive the better," I held up a hand, "Only Mycroft and Watson knew of my escape…"

"_He Did NOT_!" Lestrade roared and I reflected that it was a good thing that Mycroft's office had been constructed for secrecy. It was impossible to eavesdrop from outside the room, even if those within were shouting. Then the import of Lestrade's words hit me and I whirled to my brother.

"You told Watson," I stated more than asked; "I specifically instructed that he be told _at once_!"

"And I ignored your instructions," Mycroft replied with all the serenity of an elder brother, "I deemed it too dangerous for him to know."

"Dear heaven," I collapsed into the seat beside Lestrade. Already my careful plans of reunion were crumbling around me. They had been all that occupied my spare moments these last three years, in fact the anticipation of seeing Watson's familiar crooked smile, feeling his firm hand grasp mine in welcome had carried me through some dark hours.

"It's worse than you think, Mr Holmes," Lestrade had yet to let go of his anger, and quite rightly too. I should have found a way to inform Watson myself, instead of relying on my elder brother to do so. Something in the Yarder's eyes caught my attention and he sighed heavily. For a horrible moment I thought he was going to tell me my friend had died, a truly irrational fear, but one that had haunted me ever since I had survived the Falls.

"Four months after he returned from Switzerland there was a horrific hansom accident. Mrs Watson was one of the passengers involved in the accident. She died at the scene before he could be summoned," Lestrade said it flatly, bitter recrimination dripping from his tone.

"Not his Mary," I moaned. The knowledge that I was sending Watson home to his Wife, to the one person I trusted his care to in my absence, had been a slender reed of comfort. My dear friend would have been devastated at her loss; even I felt a pang of grief knowing that the only person I had willingly, if grudgingly, shared him with was no longer there to comfort him. Watson had buried her alone – an ordeal that I should have been present for.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I shot at my brother, who blinked complacently, not even turning a hair in reply.

"You were involved in smashing that document forgery ring for me at the time: I needed your mind on your work. You would not have been able to return anyway; even if you had, you would not have been in time for the funeral," he stated firmly, "It was a distraction you could not afford then and you can ill afford it now. If you are to capture Moran you need to concentrate on what is important. She's been dead for nearly three years, Sherlock, a few more days won't hurt the matter either way."

Lestrade blanched in anger and I shot to my feet. I grabbed for my disguise and shoved the books into the Yarder's hands, wondering as I did so if they would become impromptu missiles aimed at my brother.

"Inspector, I believe we have business to attend to elsewhere," I informed him, pleased when the shorter man nodded, glaring in silent menace at the man that was most of Her Majesty's government. My wig and beard once more in place I reclaimed my props and assumed my hunch, following the fuming Inspector out into Whitehall.

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	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer – I'm still not Conan Doyle (although I may be the tooth fairy… or perhaps not…)

I own Sweetie though…

**Observations of a Boswell**

**Prior to the Reunion – Lestrade**

Once we were in the cab, the old man beside me whispered one word.

"Watson."

I gave the cabby the Kensington address, relieved to the bottom of my heart that the business referred to in the office had been related to assuaging the grief of a very good friend. Once we were well underway Holmes judged it safe to ask me in a low voice what had become of his only friend. I had seen how hard the death of his friend had hit John: I was beginning to understand that the man beside me had felt a fraction of this pain as well. A startling discovery about a man that we at the Yard often called the 'thinking machine', sometimes with less than fond tones.

"Well," I grimaced, "He was very low for a few weeks after he lost… his friend, and Mrs Watson had a job of cheering him up. You know what he's like sir, you can knock him down as hard as you like, but he gets back up again eventually."

The bookseller grunted, long thin fingers twitching on his wares. He was thinner than I remembered and had the look of a man who'd slept rough for a while – not his clothes, which were immaculate to his disguise, but his eyes. He was also unmistakably eager for whatever information I could offer him about our mutual friend; as tempting as it was to draw things out, I knew better than to prolong his agony. Sherlock Holmes always came up with _inventive_ ways to make you pay.

"Well, he started working for the Charity hospitals for a while, on top of his practice, which I think Mrs Watson suggested to him. That helped, because the hospitals would call him out at odd hours, which he was used to in his… old line of work," I hinted, garnering an irritable grunt in reply, the feverish grey eyes all but shouting at me to get on with it.

"When she died… he took sick for a while after the funeral. Not brain fever, but close on it… and when he recovered, although it wasn't really a proper recovery, we at the Yard convinced him to sign on as a Police Surgeon, part time. He might not have been in your league when it came to detecting the living, but he can make the dead speak with an accuracy that is uncanny," I sighed, "He'd come on raids with us when we thought we'd need medical backup and he'd come to interviews and the like with some of the other Inspectors or myself when we needed a calming influence. The Constables see him as one of their own, though that could be because he tends their families when someone's sick. Quite a few of us have him down as our physician of record… I'm sure you can understand why."

Because Dr John Hamish Watson was a stubborn son of a mule who would fight Death herself for his patients, winning more often than not. He'd saved the life and limb of so many of the men who policed London that there had been talk of getting him his own credentials. The man beside me didn't need me to tell him that – he'd been on the receiving end of John's medical skills more than once.

"Overwork," the dissatisfied grumble recalled me to my situation and I nodded grimly. I wasn't looking forward to witnessing the shock that John's physical appearance would give to Mr Holmes – the man was thinner than he should be, thinner than he had been when I'd first met him.

"Yes," I agreed, "As much as we try to limit him, as much as we try to get him to slow down and take a breath now and then … he works hard to cope with his grief."

There was a barely audible groan from beside me, and it struck at my heart. I'd seen the disappointment in his eyes when he'd realised that Watson wasn't there with us in the office, followed by the grief and rage when he'd realised his brother's duplicity. He and Mrs Watson had enjoyed a very unusual relationship, but it couldn't be denied that he'd taken her death as something of a blow. I didn't know what the brothers' relationship was like before all this happened, hell I didn't know the man even _had_ a brother, but pounds to pennies that the two of them would barely speak for a while, if ever.

"I think… it would be best if we got him home before you told him you were alive. It's the half day at his surgery today, then he was supposed to come to the Yard this afternoon, but that doesn't matter," I withstood the grey glare as best I could, "Look, you haven't seen what all this has done to him. In fact between his health and a rather vicious criminal, I think we'd have lost him eight months after Switzerland if one of his patients hadn't given him a gift of a dog. Sweetie is one of the few things that have kept him going."

"_Sweetie?_!" the incoherent splutter was worth being stiffed for the fare as the cab pulled up outside the practice of John H Watson.

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	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer – I'm still not Conan Doyle (although I may be the tooth fairy… or perhaps not…)

I own Sweetie though…

**Observations of a Boswell**

**The Reunion – Holmes**

The practice in Kensington had flourished in the last three years. Watson's hard work was evident in the smart paintwork and the well worn front step. The maid that greeted us was smartly dressed and intelligent; she was also apparently well acquainted with Lestrade and his requests that he and his companion be shown in after the last appointment of the day.

It was obvious to me that Lestrade's esteem for my Watson had grown in my absence: I could only hope my Boswell had allowed himself to be comforted by his friends. His stubborn pride and determined nature would have made it difficult for those who held him in esteem to offer the assistance he deserved, but Inspector Lestrade was one of the most tenacious men I knew after Watson; the man would have worn my dear friend down over time. I could only hope that that Watson would not allow my return, my apparent duplicity, to drive a wedge between us so that I too could give him the surcease he no doubt needed from his grief.

The sharply appointed waiting room had only one other patient in it, a clerk with a runny nose and a hang over, which he hoped to disguise from his employer. I hoped that Watson would send him swiftly on his way. The maid ushered a young mother and her two children out of Watson's office, then ushered the young man in, all without so much as glancing at us curiously. I found this odd, and evidently so did Lestrade, as he frowned and got up to walk across to the window. He stood carefully so he couldn't be seen, an action I had barely credited him with enough intelligence to perform, before cursing under his breath and returning to his seat beside me.

"The surgery is being watched," he muttered, to which I cursed as well. We would have to consider very carefully how we did this – I did not want to disturb the traps I had planned for Baker Street, nor did I want to risk Watson's seemingly fragile health.

"We need to find a way to dismiss the maid," I breathed the words in Lestrade's ear, and the shorter man nodded, his expression showing that he was deep in thought.

"Leave that to me," he said after a moment. I frowned, hoping that the man wasn't about to cause some sort of scene that would attract more attention than we wanted. The clerk came out of the office, his face rather more red than it had been when he went in, which I attributed to one of Watson's stern lectures. The maid took her own time about appearing and led us eventually into the doctor's office.

At the first sight of him, it was all I could do not to cry out. I know that I stumbled and that Lestrade pushed me into the visitors chair quickly. My Watson got up and hurried around his desk, one hand latching onto my wrist, seeking my pulse, the other checking my temperature.

He was still wearing full mourning. The sombre black heightened his pale skin, which had lost much of the deep tan that his time in the tropics had left him with. He was as thin as he'd been the day I'd met him, the slight weight that his Wife had managed to pack onto his spare frame gone as if it had never existed. His wedding band sat upon his right ring finger, marking his status as a Widower and his hazel eyes had dulled and faded. His shoulders were slightly bowed: his head bent beneath the weight of his grief. Our dual deaths had done this to him, my _brother_ had done this to him, and for that Mycroft would never be forgiven.

"Sir?" the familiar voice was gentle with concern and I straightened my posture as much as the disguise would allow, waving off his hands with supreme effort. Despite his appalling state of health my dear friends touch was that of a competent healer, soothing yet firm. A stranger, ignorant of the dignity and presence of my friend at the height of health would have been greatly comforted by that touch.

"I have not eaten lunch," I forced the old mans voice from my throat, prompting Watson to give me a faint smile, so different from the crooked grin he used to grace me with.

"That is easily remedied," he let go of my wrist, apparently satisfied that I was not about to collapse upon his rug and took the note that Lestrade handed him. He read it through, his face showing his emotions as always: surprised shock, which was quickly followed by determination. He nodded to Lestrade once before taking his seat, stuffing the note in his pocket as he picked up his pen and quickly noting down a short list of medications.

"Susie!" Watson called, and the maid appeared so quickly I suspected she'd been listening at the door. From the glint in Watson's eyes he suspected that too, though his voice remained light and pleasant as he requested that she run down to the nearest chemist to collect the items on the list. We waited in silence until the front door shut: then Lestrade was up and out of the room, following in her footsteps to lock the door. Watson was also up, collecting his things quickly and reaching for his stick. He misjudged and knocked the thing over, but before I could pick it up for him there was a black and white blur coupled with a deep rumbling noise.

"Thank you Sweetie," Watson said absently and held his hand out for the dog to return the stick to him. Horse would have been a better description for the animal. It was easily as tall as his waist, had a thick plain leather collar around its neck, was predominantly white with a series of black patches that looked like someone had splattered ink all over the beast, and was as narrow as it was tall. The square head and powerful jaws added to the menace of the beast.

"There's no one out the back," Lestrade reported, "Hello Sweetie."

The long tail waved idly in response as the dog sniffed over the proffered hand before Watson waved us out of the back door of his office. We had to step over the blanket where the beast had obviously been sitting while its master was at work and the four of us hurried to Watson's back door. The practice let out into a small mews, which was indeed unwatched – an unexpected but welcome oversight.

Lestrade gestured for me to lead so I turned us in the direction of home. If I was to have my reunion with Watson, then I was going to do so on our first common ground.

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	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer – I'm still not Conan Doyle (although I may be the tooth fairy… or perhaps not…)

I own Sweetie though…

**Observations of a Boswell**

**The Reunion – Baker Street**

As we walked, I informed them both that there were certain things that needed to be done if we were to capture the murderer of the Right Honourable Richard Adair. Lestrade agreed to fetch the bag I had left at the Victoria Station's luggage office and departed at once. The Inspector had instructed Watson to stay with me, as I had vital information for him, and despite the fact that he was entirely in the dark my staunch Boswell did as he'd been asked and kept pace with me through the narrow back ways that we were taking. I had to slow my pace twice for him, so great was my eagerness to be somewhere safe where we could talk; he of course did not ask for such considerations, it was more that his limp became evident, a sure sign that I was pushing him beyond his already strained limits.

The beast, which I would have to ask Watson precisely what breed it was, stayed very close to its master. When he faltered or paused it put its shoulder under his hand, by which action I was shocked to realise that it was attempting, in its own fashion, to support him. It also guided his footsteps, keeping him closer to the walls around us and away from any gutters or hazards that might trip him. The dog had clearly been trained to assist a disabled person and my heart twisted at the knowledge that under his suit of mourning there was some very real damage that may well preclude him from our work in the future.

It did not take long for us to reach Baker Street; once he identified the plane tree in Mrs Hudson's back yard my dear friend took a deep breath and went to the back door. He unlocked it with a key, to my surprise, and waited until we were in the scullery to inform me that my landlady was away on a visit to her sister, thus she would not be back until later this afternoon. I frowned, at once beginning to rework my plans for the evening, in case Mrs Hudson was not available.

"I have something important to tell you," I let the old mans voice speak for me, sensing that to simply reveal myself without explanation would be too much for my dear friends nerves, "Is there somewhere we can sit?"

After several moments of thought, Watson took me reluctantly to the sitting room we had once shared. Although it was free of dust and had evidently been aired frequently there was an unused feel to the place. We piled our outer wear on the table in silence before heading deeper into the room. Watson sat in my accustomed chair: an action that led me to realise that he didn't want to see a stranger sit where he had been used to seeing me. The unaccountably named Sweetie settled on the rug beside him with a sigh, an action that was apparently all that the beast needed to fall asleep.

"Forgive me if I cause you some pain," I began nervously; "I must speak of past events that are personal to you."

"Very well," my Watson said stiffly and folded his arms, a defensive movement that was quite unlike him, "I'm listening."

"Three years ago you believed that you lost Sherlock Holmes to the criminal mastermind Professor Moriarty," I paused as he paled and sat up, the abrupt movement calling the beast's attention to its master, belying its apparent sleepiness, "This belief was false. The Professor went over the Falls alone; however he had brought with him several accomplices who then proceeded to hunt his intended victim across the mountains."

"Holmes survived?" Watson's voice was faint with hope, and a touch of energy entered those flat eyes, "But… that cannot be… he would never have allowed me to believe…"

"He contacted his brother, once he had eluded his pursuers and gave the man several instructions. One of which was to inform you of his survival."

"Mr Holmes would never have…" Watson snorted bitterly, "The man loathes me. I was nothing but a millstone around his brother's neck. He would not have obeyed that instruction _if it had been sent_."

"Watson, I promise you," I whispered in my own voice, shaken by the words he had uttered about Mycroft, the doubts he had aired about myself, "I told Mycroft to tell you I survived…"

"Holmes?" Watson had paled again, but his eyes were sharp as I nodded, pulling the wretched disguise off carefully and dropping it on the small table that rested beside his chair. He mouthed my name again, this time in silence, before scaring me almost out of my wits as he collapsed limply back into my old chair, so white he could have been used for notepaper. In a flash I was on my feet, drawing out my brandy flask and loosening his collar. Sweetie was attempting to bring him around by nuzzling him, but at the scent of my brandy flask it pulled back and allowed me to administer the drink.

Watson spluttered, before drinking obediently, sipping as I urged him on in a gentle voice that was reserved strictly for him. Once he was steady, I settled on the arm of my old chair, my hands firmly on his shoulders.

"Holmes!" he gasped, gripping my wrists so tightly I thought his fingers would leave bruises. It would be worth it. It would be worth anything, if he would only forgive my treachery and return to my side.

"My dear Watson, can you ever forgive me?" the words were low and rough but never more truly meant, "Had I known that Mycroft had failed to inform you… had I known that Mary…"

His face convulsed in grief and I broke off, averting my gaze. His pride would not appreciate a witness to the emotions that were making him shake and breathe so unsteadily. He rested his head against my shoulder for a long moment, an action that prompted me to cautiously tighten my grip, wanting more than anything to ease his evident pain.

"You truly didn't know?" the question itself showed how shaken he was by all this: I couldn't find it in me to resent it.

"Truly, my dear Watson. I'd have been at your side if I had," I vowed and he nodded against my shoulder. We stayed thus for a moment before my dear friend took a deep gathering breath and released me, sitting back in my chair. His eyes went blank for a moment, but then he jumped, looking startled.

"Sorry old chap!" he exclaimed before getting up at once, moving to his accustomed place and waving his hand for me to take my old seat. I did so immediately, curling comfortably into it and receiving the best reward in his beaming smile. The beast at his side merely looked confused.

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	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer – I'm still not Conan Doyle (although I may be the tooth fairy… or perhaps not…)

I own Sweetie though…

**Observations of a Boswell**

**The Capture**

Waiting in the darkened house across from our old rooms felt very much like old times. The bust had arrived in timely fashion; once it was in place I had carelessly let myself be seen through the windows. The watchers below had scarcely been subtle in their reactions. Moran knew I had escaped the Falls alive, but had been unable to locate me, thus he had returned to London, a silent and deadly menace to my poor Watson. This had been yet another reason why I had been unable to simply send my friend a letter announcing my escape. After three years abroad I had all but finished dismantling the last of Moriarty's empire, which meant that Moran knew he was next on my list. The shot at Adair had been carefully calculated on his part – he knew that when I got wind of his use of the air rifle I would return to London and attempt to capture him. Thus the Colonel had been quick to place a careful watch on my Watson's movements and the sentinel outside Baker Street.

Sweetie was well acquainted with Mrs Hudson, so she had been coerced to remain with our landlady. Mrs Hudson had let me know in no uncertain terms that she would be having several words with me at her leisure, causing my Watson to chuckle under his breath as we escaped Baker Street under cover of darkness.

"You've only been in the country five minutes and you're already in her bad books," he had teased me quietly, prompting me to laugh silently, the first time I had done so in years.

It took but a moment for us to establish that the bust was working exactly the way it should, before we settled into a small concealed space downstairs to wait for our quarry to appear. I was almost sure that Moran would make his attempt from the street, hence Lestrade and his constables were covering that angle. However, should the old shikari attempt to make his shot from within the empty Camden House, we would be waiting.

Standing together in silence was also instructive. My Watson of old had been prone to a nearly silent set of fidgets when waiting in such circumstances, brought on partly by his nerves and partly by his body aches. Now he stood almost entirely still: were it not for the fact that his arm was pressed against mine I would have thought him a statue. I was certain his stillness was born from low spirits more than anything else, which I was determined, would change as soon as I could devote all my energies to him once more. He had only to last for a few more hours and then I would be at his complete disposal.

A thrill went through us both when we realised that Moran had entered our hiding place: if pressed I would have to admit that I was perhaps a little forward in my actions, following him up the stairs. I was unprepared for the old Colonel to fasten his hands about my throat, and definitely unprepared for the utter viciousness of the blow that my Watson dealt him. For a moment I thought he would shoot the unconscious man where he lay, but I distracted him with a blast on my police whistle, which kept Moran alive long enough for Lestrade and his forces to arrive.

We made arrangements to drop the air rifle at the Yard tomorrow – I wanted a good look at the thing for my files – then Watson let me lead him back across the road to Baker Street. It was apparent to me that his strength was waning rapidly, but the stubborn fool insisted on helping clear up the glass and dismantling the dummy.

It came as something of a shock to realise that he was intending to return to The Limes.

"Sweetie needs her dinner," Watson shrugged, "And some exercise. I need to send Anstruther a message asking him to take my patients for the morning and contact the locum agency to cover the rest of the day and the rest of the week. I need to find a new maid for the surgery…"

He trailed off, looking disgruntled and out of place, so I put a hand on his arm tentatively, unsure how he would feel about my taking such liberties with his person. It was clear that the flush of rage that had prompted him to almost shoot Moran had drained his reserves dangerously, and that while he was intending most clearly to spend the rest of the week by my side, precisely where I wanted him; he had no momentum to do so.

"Can I help?" his pride was not to be trodden on, even I could sense that. It was all that had kept him going these last grief ridden years, therefore for me to discount that would do more harm than good.

"How do you look in a mob cap?" was the dry rejoinder.

How I had missed that pawky humour!

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	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer – I'm still not Conan Doyle (although I may be the tooth fairy… or perhaps not…)

I own Sweetie though…

**Observations of a Boswell**

**The Yard**

Naturally, I dined at Watson's house that evening, before seeing him to bed. Before leaving I pinned a note to his bedroom door, as of old, reminding him that I would meet him here at nine sharply for our journey to the Yard. The rest of the night was spent with the air gun.

Sweetie met me at the door. The maid was not someone I knew, but I approved of her caution, which would not have let me in without the dog vouching for me. I bade it good morning, before asking where its master was, and the beast led me up the stairs to Watson's bedroom, as it had no doubt been trained to do upon receiving such a question. I rapped smartly on the door and informed him that he was late.

"Actually, you're ten minutes early," he said from behind me, causing both the dog and I to jump in surprise. It looked very disgusted that he had been able to slip away from its guardian notice, and he patted its head sympathetically.

"Never mind, old girl," he told it, "Go down and finish your breakfast."

"I have to ask, Watson," I stood at his side – something of a luxury – and watched the beast make its surprisingly graceful way down the stairs, "Why, in the name of all that is holy, did you name that beast _Sweetie_? And what breed of dog is it?"

Watson's warm chuckle was music to my ears and I took the opportunity to sweep my keenest gaze over him. He'd slept fairly well last night, though he'd been up very early. He'd already been outside, probably to exercise the huge beast inhabiting his home, during which he'd stopped off to send several telegrams on his way home. He still wore the unrelenting black of mourning, and his weight and pallor had not improved, but in such a short space of time that was unlikely to happen. He had eaten, and if I was reading the signs right he'd prepared breakfast himself.

"I did not miss having every detail of my life deduced in a glance," Watson informed me as he headed down the stairs, "Though I am looking forward to becoming resigned to it once again. As to the dog – she is a Great Dane, though I believe that they are usually solid in colour. She is a sport, and the runt of her litter. She was bought by the grandson of a patient as a curiosity, but when her gentle nature revealed itself her previous owner named her Sweetie. He also sent her to a trainer that specialises in teaching dogs to assist cripples and invalids, with the idea that she would be an ideal companion for his maternal grandmother. I believe the lady was misled as to the size of her newly trained companion by the name of the dog, for she was expecting something a bit smaller and a good deal more feminine, not something that was large enough to help pick her up off the floor and guard her as much as fetch for her. She refused to have Sweetie anywhere near her, so eventually the dog came to me after a… unfortunate incident."

I very nearly demanded to know what he meant by that, for it was clear to me that the hesitation indicated that the unfortunate incident had occurred to him and not the dog; Lestrade had also hinted that Sweetie had been gifted to Watson in response to some kind of ordeal but had given no further details. I judged by the set of his shoulders that it was best not to push for answers at the moment, instead joining him in collecting our coats and hats.

"Would it be too far for you to walk to the Yard, old chap?" I asked as the dog appeared from the back of the house, licking her massive chops, "It is a pleasant day, and the beast would doubtless enjoy the exercise."

"As would I," Watson smiled lightly, "Since she came to me I've been walking a lot more, it does me good."

He collected his medical bag as he spoke, an action so familiar that I almost smiled. I could tell from the teeth marks that the dog had carried the container for him on more than one occasion, probably when he was too tired to do so himself. This was unusual, my dear friend only rarely allowed me to carry the bag for him: he had to be exceptionally tired before that occurred. In no time at all, we were through the door and walking down the street, Sweetie trotting silently at his side. I made sure to match my pace to his this time and was rewarded with a barrage of questions about our time apart. He asked for broad details, not particulars, a sure sign that he knew there would be certain matters not fit for public discussion. It was a simple deduction that I had carried out work for my brother, which of course would be classified: I was pleased to see that he had not allowed his skills to stagnate in our time apart. I had also missed his insight greatly and we spent the hour it took us to walk to the Yard in conversation, ranging from topic to topic as was our habit.

As we reached the front doors of the Yard there was something of a commotion, and several voices raised the cry of 'stop that man!' Watson looked down at his companion, telling her to 'fetch' very clearly, then hurried in the dogs wake. I watched with some admiration as she leapt onto the back of the fleeing criminal, riding him to the ground and fastening her jaw upon his collar. Her growls were more than enough to convince him that remaining still was the better part of valour and a constable puffed up behind us, derbies ready in his hands.

"Good dog!" he said briskly as Watson called Sweetie to heel. The criminal looked very relieved that she had let him go without taking a taste of him, not even putting up a struggle as the derbies were fitted while Watson patted her head in reward.

"Who is he, Bunning?" Watson obviously knew the constable, who grinned at my Boswell in a very familiar manner. The man in custody was a builder by trade, and had recently been handling green paint if the state of his nails was anything to go by.

"He's the chap that's been painting railings bright green – turns out he was targeting clients that hadn't paid on time and his rivals customers too. Constable Whitehorse let loose of him for a moment, but the Inspector is dealing with _him_," Bunning nodded politely to me and hauled the sweating builder back into the Yard.

"Oh dear," Watson sighed, "If its Inspector Barnwell we'd best take another entrance. Sweetie doesn't like him at all."

It didn't take a consulting detective to realise that was probably because Barnwell exhibited a less than sterling attitude to her master. Already I could tell that the beast and I were in accord over the way Watson should be treated by those around him. I'd never met the man and on the face of the evidence was in no hurry to.

"Barnwell was the man assigned to the case?" I surmised as we headed for a smaller entrance, though it was no great feat to do so, "And Whitehorse is _still_ a constable? I thought he was planning to take his sergeants exam."

"He failed," Watson sighed, and we plunged into the familiar confines of Scotland Yard.

0o0o0o0


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer – I'm still not Conan Doyle (although I may be the tooth fairy… or perhaps not…)

I own Sweetie though…

**Observations of a Boswell**

**The Scar**

I was not displeased to see several familiar faces as we reached the section of offices that the Inspectors used and was even more pleased to see my dear friend so warmly greeted. In my absence Watson had become a Police Surgeon for the Yard, something that I approved of to some degree; it remained to be seen how beneficial this arrangement would be to our agency, or to what degree it would hamper him from joining me in my work. I was determined that he _would_ rejoin me – three years of his absence was long enough: I would have my Watson at my side again or know the reason why.

Lestrade and Hopkins took charge of the air rifle, though Hopkins was more interested in speaking to me it seemed, than examining the weapon. In the end, several of the Inspectors came to see the infamous air rifle and spent some time experimenting with its assembly and operation.

"Doctor Watson!" a voice called sharply, and I saw Lestrade wince. The reason for that was clear when the man shouting the length of the corridor at my friend continued without waiting for acknowledgement.

"I'm sorry to interrupt your social time, but I really do need the file on the Wintergast murders."

"It's where I left it, Inspector," Watson's voice carried that patient calm that came right before he verbally dissected the unwary. He moved out of the group of men clustered around the air rifle and towards a nearby office. The man's identity was no great feat to deduce: Barnwell was a tall man, slightly overweight, with unfortunately pale wiry ginger hair. He was bug eyed and square handed: altogether not at all an aesthetic sight.

"Nothing more unaesthetic as a policeman," Lestrade murmured beside me, a small smirk upon his face. I remembered that quote well and restrained a chuckle.

"I believe, Doctor Watson, that your desk is over there," Barnwell boomed. It seemed the man had no other volume and I wondered how his wife and children could stand it. Then again they were probably accustomed to such volume and thought nothing of it. I glanced in the direction that the man was so rudely gesturing in: sure enough Watson's desk was set up by the small window in the chimney nook. It was readily identifiable as his from the meticulous layout, the organisation of the reference books resting upon it, the black medical bag carefully deposited on the wooden seat and the lurking form of Sweetie, collapsed watchfully underneath it. The other side of the chimney nook held the common supplies the Inspectors used for making tea – my Watson was being kept in company then, as just about every Inspector in the building, and several constables and sergeants besides would stop there to make tea.

"I left it on your desk," Watson's voice recalled my gaze, causing me and several others to hastily disguise a smile at the stern look he was giving the Inspector as he held out the file he had retrieved from mans' said desk. Barnwell grunted, took the file and pushed into his office. Watson had barely cleared the doorway when the door slammed shut, and Sweetie let out an indignant growl.

"Here, here," Hopkins seconded under his breath.

"Doctor Watson, I know that you're likely busy today," Lestrade spoke up as his colleagues finally drifted away to their duties, "But there was a woman brought into the morgue that I think you should have a look at. If you could spare me a few hours…"

"Of course, Inspector," Watson smiled at me ruefully and I shrugged signalling that I didn't mind. I did, but I wasn't going to be petty about such things in our first few days together. Besides, I had to give my statement to Lestrade, which would take up some of that time. A constable was summoned to witness the external examination and I followed Lestrade into his cluttered office.

"So formal, Lestrade?" I asked as I settled into the chair opposite his, "I was under the impression that you were friends."

"I pay him the respect he is due on the job, Mr Holmes," Lestrade's answer was the only acceptable one; "We aren't so formal after hours. Now then, Mr Holmes, let us get to the matter at hand."

Giving statements had always been a tedious business; the outmoded policies of the Yard making the simplest of things take much longer than was strictly needed. I resented the time spent away from my dear friend and was pleased when Lestrade suggested we proceeded down to the morgue when his paperwork was finally appeased.

Sweetie was sitting outside the doors, looking quite disgruntled. I was in total agreement with Lestrade's statement that the morgue was no place for a dog and left her where she was with no compunctions. Watson was in one of the small bays to the side, his voice even and clear as he dictated a series of his findings to the constable witnessing the examination.

Watson had discarded his jacket and rolled his crisp white sleeves up past his elbows. He wore a dark green apron to protect his clothes, and was leaning over the face of the woman on the trolley, his left hand braced beside her as his right carefully held her mouth open.

On his left forearm, bared for the entire world to see, was a scar peculiar to those that attempted to take their lives. The ones that were serious always slashed diagonally along the forearm, severing the blood vessels as well as the arteries lurking beneath the skin. I must have made some noise, for Lestrade abruptly took hold of my arm and pulled me out of sight of my dearest friend.

"He didn't," Lestrade said firmly, before I could dishonour Watson with the questions crowding the tip of my tongue, "That was the case that ended up with him being given Sweetie."

"Explain," I glared, struggling behind my impassive mask to marshal my thoughts. Even if it hadn't been self inflicted, such a grievous wound would have threatened Watson's life. It was shocking to me that I had sent him home to be safe and thus exposed him to more danger and hardship than if he'd remained at my side. I was beginning to wonder if I should have insisted my Watson come into exile with me where I could watch over him, Wife or no Wife.

"There was an impostor," Lestrade sighed, "I take it he hasn't told you about this? Well, after you died a series of nutters came out of the woodwork, all of them claiming to be you. There was even one who claimed to have been possessed by you… and they all went after Watson as their 'proof'. It seems that they thought if they could convince him that their claim was true then they could convince anyone. One of them went too far. Just four months after Mrs Watson died; this loon kidnapped Dr Watson and tried to beat him into submission. When the good doctor continued to refuse to agree that the nutter was you, the man attempted to fake his suicide, obviously unaware that the signs of the beating would raise automatic questions with us, even if we had somehow managed not to notice one of our best Police Surgeons had been missing for a week. We got to him in time to stop the second arm being cut, but it was touch and go…"

"Dear god," I wanted to be sick. The very idea that my Watson had been seen as easy prey to these jackals, that he had been forced to deal with their false claims… I knew my Boswell; each time a new claimant came forth there would have been a stubborn spark of hope that this time the claim was true.

"In fact," Lestrade only now released my arm from his tight grip, "One of the things I wrote in that little note yesterday was that no matter what it looked like you weren't a nutter. That's something I never thought I'd say about you, Mr Holmes."

I didn't bother to dignify that with a response.

0o0o0o0


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer – I'm still not Conan Doyle (although I may be the tooth fairy… or perhaps not…)

I own Sweetie though…

**Observations of a Boswell**

_**SQUICK WARNING – THIS IS THE SERIAL KILLER CHAPTER**_

**The Corpse**

My Watson greeted us cheerfully when we approached and stood back from the young corpse on the table. He folded his hands neatly behind his back and nodded to me as I moved forward to examine her out of professional curiosity.

"She's in her early twenties, a kitchen maid in a private establishment by trade, probably quite high up in the hierarchy for her position. Cause of death was strangulation, though she had also been handled roughly. From the traces on her clothes, body and skin she was kept for a week without food and only tainted water to drink – in fact I believe she was in a cellar near to one of the canals off the Serpentine. She has been strangled repeatedly, her captor waiting until she passed out, then reviving her and strangling her again. From the bruises and abrasions, each of the strangulations was more and more violent, until the final and fatal one. Her captor is right handed, slightly under average height but with highly developed upper body strength. Her throat is distended, which indicates there is something crammed tightly down her oesophagus – if it's what I think it is Lestrade then there will be something inserted in her body as well," Watson said quietly and proceeded to detail his deductions and list his points of evidence.

I straightened from the body when he finished speaking and was rewarded with a slightly wary look and a wry twist of the lips.

"Well, what did I miss?" my Boswell asked, wounding me unintentionally. Did he really think I held his skills in such small esteem? As a physician there was no other I trusted my care to; in my opinion, his skill with diagnosis was second to none, not even the Royal Physicians.

"Exactly what I would have expected you to miss, dear chap. Nothing," I replied. The effort of expressing the sentiment was more than rewarded with the pleased flash of colour in his eyes and the shy smile.

"No offence, Doctor, but I hope you're wrong," Lestrade sighed, "Because if you aren't then that chap we were after is back again, and ahead of schedule."

"A serial killer?" my interest was aroused and Lestrade sighed heavily, nodding in response. Watson grimaced and prepared a flat tray and a set of forceps, gesturing for the constable to move to the foot of the table. Lestrade stepped up to my dear friend's side and held the tray level with the victim's mouth while Watson reached between her teeth with the forceps. He grunted under his breath and made a small rotation of his wrist before pulling them back, the end of a wet piece of red silk tangled around the instrument.

Even I had to admit that it was a disturbing sight, the red glistening silk spooling from the victims throat; the throat itself changing size and shape in reaction to the obstruction being removed from it. The constable gulped several times, and Watson warned him not to be sick on the body in an absentminded tone.

"No, Dr Watson," the man groaned queasily, "My gawd, how much is in there?"

"About five yards, tightly packed, if I recall the measurements from the last two," Watson replied, "And of course the end of it will be knotted around…. Ah!"

He delved delicately into the gaping mouth one more time and grimaced, turning his hand carefully first one way then the other as he angled for the best grip on whatever object he was reaching for. The last of the silk pooled onto the tray and Watson delicately deposited the object he had grasped on top.

It was the head of a doll.

0o0o0o0


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer – I'm still not Conan Doyle (although I may be the tooth fairy… or perhaps not…)

I own Sweetie though…

**Observations of a Boswell**

**The Case**

"Well, Lestrade?" Gregson asked from the doorway as we sat in the Inspectors office. Watson had resumed his jacket and Sweetie was once more reunited with her master. I had never seen a dog so large dance so lightly when she had caught sight of Watson and moved to greet him.

"Not really," Lestrade replied heavily, handing over the last of the files that he had gathered on the serial killer to me, "We've got a third Red Silk victim, ahead of schedule too. If he's speeding up that means things are only going to get worse."

Gregson muttered an oath under his breath, before he heaved a sigh, looking at the file in his hands.

"Give me a minute to put this on Barnwell's desk, then I'll come and join you," he sighed. Watson leaned back in his chair, his right leg stretched out in front of him, one hand idly rubbing between Sweetie's shoulders. The dog looked very pleased with the attention, though my dear friend was probably only moving by habit. He had that distant look that said he was thinking carefully about the case before us. That look was the one I saw most often before he offered a comment that shed light upon the seemingly impenetrable matter at hand; it was one I had come to rely on in the course of our years of work.

"Are you going to be helping us then, Mr Holmes?" Gregson announced his return, scuffling the chair he'd brought with him into place and shutting the door on the rest of the Yard. With the door shut Lestrade's small office became positively claustrophobic, considering there were four grown men and a dog the size of a small horse enclosed within it.

"If I am permitted to do so," I replied stiffly and my Watson shot me a worried look. I was well aware that after three years of absence the Yard's policy on consulting detectives may well have changed; I also had enough manners in me to recognise that I couldn't appear to sweep in and simply take over their more interesting cases. Watson had always laboured to bridge the gaps between the Yard and myself – he was in no condition at the moment to do so. A touch of circumspection was called for.

"I won't deny that we're on a hiding to nowhere with it," Gregson sighed, "Three bodies, kept in three different locations before they were discovered in three different parts of London. The only commonality, apart from their cause of death and general treatment, has been their age and occupation."

"Which Dr Watson has already told us is significant," Lestrade sighed, "The man doing this is probably acting on his anger at or fixation with a young kitchen maid who has been intimately involved with him outside of wedlock. The resulting condition was terminated, which is what has triggered his rage and these attacks."

"The fact that he has access to diverse locations is significant," Gregson added, "Most serials find a lair and stay there."

"True," Watson stirred from his thoughts, "I'd lay more significance on his occupational markers though. Shorter than average height with increased upper body strength. Has access to cellars near to water; also can access some form of private transport for the movement of the bodies."

"It's a broad description, Doctor," Gregson complained, "Can't you narrow it down any further?"

"Not as yet," Watson sighed, "There is something nagging at me, something that is right in front of me, that I've seen but not observed… if I can catch whatever it is, I'll let you both know."

"We'd best let you get on then," Lestrade waved a hand at the door, "Mr Holmes I'll let you take those files home provided they're back on my desk tomorrow morning sharp. Doctor, will you complete her autopsy then? We have a few leads to her identity; I'm hoping we'll have a name to go with her by tomorrow."

"Very well, Lestrade," Watson nodded and got up slowly, allowing Sweetie to press against his legs to steady him.

"Thank you Lestrade," I enjoyed the look of shock on the Yarder's face and nodded to Gregson on our way out. We walked silently from the Yard, but once outside I took my Watson's arm and directed him towards the cab rank.

"I rather fancy lunch at Simpsons," I told him, "If that suits of course. Sweetie could be accommodated in their cloak room I am sure…"

"I would enjoy that," Watson nodded, twining his arm in mine companionably. It was evident to me that enjoyment was not something he'd had of late or at least something he'd experienced only very rarely. On the whole I was very displeased with the state I found him in, something that I was determined to improve at once, if not sooner.

This case from the Yard, macabre though it was, was heaven sent. It would allow us to re-establish our working partnership and the agency. It would also give me further insight into the grief stricken man my friend had become. I flatter myself that my mere presence was alleviating some of this grief, as Watson was certainly less bowed down than he had been only yesterday.

I was not pleased with our separate living arrangements though, and made a mental note to speak to Mrs Hudson about accommodations for Sweetie. Watson would recover much more quickly under our joint care and in our presence than apart from us. It was evident that his household contained only a minimal number of staff and that he was seeing to a number of domestic chores himself. Mrs Hudson was much better equipped to deal with such chores and in addition her cooking was so much better than his. He could regain some much needed weight without the burden of preparing his own meals, something that I had also come to loathe in the three years we had been apart.

All that remained was to convince my dearest friend that his return to Baker Street was in his best interest.

0o0o0o0


	11. Chapter 11

Disclaimer – I'm still not Conan Doyle (although I may be the tooth fairy… or perhaps not…)

I own Sweetie though…

**Observations of a Boswell**

**The Beginning**

"Holmes, whatever it is, spit it out man," Watson's amused voice cut through my ruminations, something that I had missed these last years. Sweetie had been accommodated in Simpsons' cloak room, the restaurant living up to its reputation for coping with the most bizarre events with equanimity.

"I was simply pondering the mechanics of resuming our practice in Baker Street," I thought it best to raise the idea now, as Watson sometimes required a few hours of thinking time before he could be brought to my way of thinking.

"_Our_ practice?" Watson's emphasis showed that he had been paying attention to the crux of the matter, "Holmes… are you sure?"

"Our agency would be a very poor thing indeed if you were to quit it," I said emphatically. Watson looked down at his place setting, but not before I saw the doubts, incited by Mycroft no doubt, swirling in his eyes. I leaned forward to lessen the gap between us and lowered my voice, "Surely you know how much I rely upon you? Our capture of Moran was the first time in three years that I felt at all secure in my plans – it was your presence at my side that gave me that security."

"I'm hardly a match for you, intellectually or physically," Watson replied quietly, still not meeting my eyes. Mycroft was definitely at the bottom of this and I made a mental note to call upon my brother and explain clearly to him the courtesies due to Dr John Watson, "I _am_ a crippled war veteran, with no gift for deduction; even socially we are mismatched. My family were not country squires."

"Pigs to them," I replied quite rudely, garnering a mildly shocked glance from my dear friend, "Social standing has never been a factor in our friendship, as you well know. I will admit Watson, that when we first moved into Baker Street I entertained some doubt that we would last the length of our original lease. Those doubts were dead by the end of the second day. I don't need another detective in my agency; I need a man with insight into the humans we deal with, one that can offer me Societies view of the matters we deal with. I need an anchor, someone that I can trust with my life and my sanity. _That anchor is you, Watson._ There is no one else I would trust, not even my brother."

Watson's eyes came up to meet mine at last and I poured every ounce of conviction into my gaze. If I couldn't convince him here and now, then Moriarty might as well have killed me at the Falls. Mycroft had a lot to answer for, sewing such doubts into my dearest friends mind. It pained me to admit it, but jealousy had been at the route of my brothers' actions. I meant what I said to Watson: I trusted him over and above my sole living family. I would follow Watson blindly forward, never doubting or questioning him. Mycroft would have to convince me that his path was the best first.

Years of grief, coupled with the seeds of doubt my brother had so heartlessly sewn, had undermined the steady man before me. He was my one fixed constant in a world that could change in the blink of an eye; without him I doubted that I would even survive very long – one false move and I would truly be dead.

"Alright, old man," Watson said soothingly, reading more of my inner thoughts than I would have hoped were visible, "If you're sure you want me, then of course I will rejoin the agency."

"And Baker Street? You will return to Baker Street?" I pressed my point now and Watson smiled quietly, nodding without hesitation.

"I cannot say how soon I could accomplish such a move," he warned me, "And with this case before us, it might be better to wait until we're at our leisure. Truth is I'm tired of my lonely hearth – I've missed you terribly old chap, I should have said so earlier."

"There was no need to say it, Watson. I knew," I sighed, leaning back in my chair. It was only a tenuous return to the normality I craved, but it was a beginning. I was sure that, given time, I could persuade him to sell his practice in Kensington and devote himself to our work fulltime.

However that was a subject that would need to be broached carefully, when he wasn't still vacillating between such a wide range of emotions that I could barely catalogue, let alone understand. He was a prideful man, so I would need to pay close attention to what my Boswell left unsaid.

That would be no hardship – I was used to making close observations

0o0o0o0

End

0o0o0o0

I had an attack of the 'and' word while writing this! I hope I got all the unnecessary ones out, or replaced them with better connectives! If my class could see it they'd have had a field day after all the times I tell them to vary their word choice!!

Let me know what you think! (Unless you're going to complain that I didn't warn you about the icky bits, in which case see the message in my profile.)


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